My father died. When my brother called with the news I asked him to repeat what he’d said. Was he sure that Dad hadn’t just fallen, or hurt himself?
We had a celebration of his life at the local church in Fyvie close to where he’d brought us up. For me, the desire to explain what he had contributed, to preserve Dad’s life’s work, over-rode everything else.
I wanted his character and his strengths to be a matter of record, so that our children can reflect on them. And I wanted to make sure that my mother, my wife, my children, brother, sisters were fine.
On that day this need to lay out his character and contribution, and to represent him properly outweighed taking the time to properly and personally grieve for him.
I wonder if this is right. Whether I should feel different. Whether there is a pattern or template which I am ignoring. I don’t know.
These are early days though. We’ll see what happens over the coming weeks. What I know is that I had the benefit of my father for 52 years. I am so grateful.
In the church at Fyvie there is a beautiful stained glass window made by Tiffany in New York. It has a number of hidden stars in it. As kids, we used to spend our time trying to find them instead of listening to the Minister.
I felt the young one’s discomfort and sadness in having to listen to people like me talking about Dad at a funeral. So I told them that they might want to try counting the stars. My son Jamie found five!